


Ulmus Linnaeus

by risingdin



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, PWP, randomness with canon relevance, sexy nature pron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 13:03:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2694053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/risingdin/pseuds/risingdin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...the blonde wall of determination that was Clarke Griffin had been getting under his skin for so long that he had hardly recognized when it had turned from frustrated hostility to frustrated admiration—but when that admiration had acquired a healthy side of sexual tension he had certainly taken notice.</p><p>Or: An ambush leads Clarke and Bellamy to close quarters, where things get a little... unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ulmus Linnaeus

_Bellamy_

 

In the middle of a moss-covered clearing, two massive trees held the crumbling lower remains of a third long-dead trunk upright. The cave-like enclosure that resulted was small, dark, and incredibly damp. A thick root was digging cruelly and somewhat inappropriately into Bellamy Blake’s left buttock and, to add insult to injury, decomposing tree matter soaked icily into the back of his pants.

There was a blonde perched between his sprawled knees; she’d followed his backwards scramble into this place headfirst and had ended up there, crouched in a position that looked distinctly uncomfortable. Bellamy’s hand was clenched on her sodden leg—an indication to stay still. It was unnecessary. Clarke Griffin was not stupid, he would give her that.

The _thud thud_ of footsteps outside of their hiding place reverberated in the tense silence. Clarke’s hand tightened on her machete and Bellamy clamped his fingers even more tightly on her leg, suddenly questioning his generosity concerning her character. She made a face at him, one eyebrow soaring. He gave a quick shake of his head. Her answering expression communicated the word _duh_ as clearly as if she’d said it out loud. The footsteps came closer and her fingers shifted infinitesimally on the blade’s handle again. Ah—she wasn’t planning attack. She was preparing for its eventuality. Bellamy gave her a crooked half-smile. His only answer was another raised eyebrow.

Sun and snow filtered down through the shaded opening several yards above their heads. The trunk they occupied was thoroughly hollowed, with only the leafless branches of its towering cohorts shielding it from the sky. Clarke was listening very intently to the sounds from outside, but her eyes never left his. Bellamy didn’t even find it remarkable that he drew comfort from this non-physical contact anymore. It was just how it was.

A muffled, bitten off cry and a thud brought her eyebrows down, and he felt her own fingers curl around his leg. The grounders who had ambushed them on their way back from a peace-talk with a neighboring camp were not treating their prisoner well, it seemed. He wasn’t particularly surprised; Finn Collins had gunned down too many of their village to be easily forgiven. It had only been a matter of time before they came to claim retribution. Bellamy couldn’t even say that he blamed them. He just hoped for Clarke’s sake that they didn’t kill the damned, damaged kid while the two of them cowered in a god damned tree.

The sound of two grounders arguing in an unfamiliar language reached their ears. One rang with authority—it belonged to the sturdy-looking woman with the tattoo around her eye, if he had to guess—and the other with a stern and determined kind of calm. In the midst of it all, he heard his sister’s name. If it was possible, Bellamy went even more still than before. Octavia was out there somewhere. In the woods. She was alive, or she had been the last time he’d seen her—in fact, she was the only reason they hadn’t all been killed outright, and probably the only reason Finn was, somehow, incredibly, still breathing.

“Your friend for my son,” the woman with the tattooed face had told Octavia not even a half hour before, at the end of desperate persuasion on Octavia’s part and cold fury on the woman’s. Octavia had been shielding a strangely impassive Finn from armed grounders with her body—and really, what _was_ it with all of these goddamned noble females in Bellamy’s life?—and she’d moved away at the words, had nodded determinedly and forcefully and said, “We _will_ get him back for you, Indra.”

A big dreadlocked grounder had tied Finn at the wrists and strung him to the saddle of a strong horse. Octavia was examining Finn as if she couldn’t decide if he was really, actually, worth the fuss. Then she had turned back towards the two of them, saying, “Come on, we need to go get Lincoln.”

Bellamy had wondered if there was something in his ears, or if he’d just heard her wrong, because Lincoln was… well Lincoln was a god damn monster now and they’d already _tried_ to get him back once, anyway, and that hadn’t ended well. Three dead, one maimed, and two others injured was how it _had_ ended, in fact, and Octavia practically comatose with grief when it was all over. But he figured now wasn’t the best time to voice his reservations on the subject.

They’d gotten maybe ten feet from the grounders when a man’s voice had howled, full of grief, in a language Bellamy couldn’t understand, and then, at Finn, in a language he did. “YOU KILLED MY WIFE!”

Arrows flew suddenly, from more than one bow, and Bellamy’s group scattered, Octavia in one direction and he and Clarke in another. Out of the corner of his eye Bellamy had seen the woman, who he assumed to be the grounders’ leader, swing towards a man who had pure, unadulterated anguish on his face and cuff him solidly on the side of the head with the hilt of her sword. The man had an arrow notched in Finn’s direction. Instead of letting it loose, he crumpled. Finn’s face had never changed during the whole incident, not that it changed much anymore, anyway.

Despite the apparent widower’s unconscious state more of the grounders were firing arrows in their direction again. Bellamy grabbed Clarke’s hand and ran faster. “Look for a place to hide,” he’d said breathlessly. “We can’t outrun arrows.”

Finally, they’d ducked behind a tree to catch their breaths, and also to take inventory of their surroundings (and _also_ so Bellamy could come fully to the realization that he’d lost his sister in these accursed woods once again) and Clarke had swung towards him with that _we have to go back_ look on her face and Bellamy had made a move to grab her shoulders and assure her that _of course they would go back; they had to find O_ when the sound of running feet and hooves striking the ground rang through the clearing they’d stopped in. Bellamy had taken a quick step backward, swiveling to look around for anything— _anything_ —that would serve as a hiding place, and his foot had slipped on slimy leaf matter, sending him sprawling backwards into some shrubby fir saplings and damp mulched earth. He’d put a hand back to brace himself to rise and was surprised when he didn’t come in rough contact with tree bark. A brief glance through the saplings had revealed the rotted out gap in the bottom of the tree trunk, and Bellamy had jerked his head at Clarke, who had crouched before him with a hand out and an expectant look on her face. He’d grunted an almost silent “come on,” and they’d both scrambled into the hollow tree. Less than three minutes ago Bellamy had stuck a hand out to resettle the cluttered forest floor behind them and now he was freezing, soaking wet, being assaulted by a root, and listening to two grounders arguing about executing a person he’d once begun to consider an ally.

Clarke’s fingers unwrapped from his leg and she brushed slimy tree matter absently onto his canvas-covered knee. He caught her by the hand and gestured for her to move to her knees, holding a finger to his lips. She sank silently down from her crouch, kneeling in front of him. He noted somewhat absently that he was not letting her hand go, and that she had made no move to pull it from his grasp.

There was another thud, this time from heavy material or something like it hitting the ground with a slap. Clarke peeked out between closely packed branches before Bellamy could stop her. She turned back to him, looking harried.

“They’re setting up camp,” she whispered, frustrated.

He closed his eyes, once, and then took a deep breath, his eyes back on her face. “Then we wait until they’re asleep.”

She nodded and sighed resignedly, settling back between his legs.

He pretended not to notice that she’d never let go of his hand.

~*~*~

_Clarke_

It had been two hours and the sounds of the grounders’ nighttime reveling did not seem inclined to abate. Clarke, on the other hand, was getting twitchy.

Finn was out there, at the grounders’ mercy, and although their relationship had altered dramatically in the last weeks, and she couldn’t even meet his eyes anymore for her own guilt and the residual horror of what he had done, he was still… well, he had once been incredibly important to her and that kind of bond didn’t disappear just because you wanted it to.

She shifted for the fourth time in as many minutes but stilled as Bellamy’s hand tightened momentarily around hers. It wasn’t a warning this time; his hold softened and his fingers brushed and lingered for too long for it to be meant for anything other than comfort. She squeezed back, briefly, and tried to settle herself for more waiting. The roar of a bonfire could be heard behind voices raised in drunken song and Clarke wished suddenly, fervently, for the warmth of the old drop ship camp, for the camaraderie of having people she knew around her. Everything was so fractured lately. She felt pulled every which way, like a toy two dogs were fighting over.

“Clarke,” Bellamy’s voice came quietly from the darkness. “Stop thinking so much.”

“I don’t think we should be talking—”

“They won’t hear us over their own racket,” he replied, quietly. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I just told you to take it easy on the thinking.”

“And you thought I’d suddenly start taking orders?” Clarke replied. “Besides, you can’t even see me. How would you know what I’m doing?”

“You project, Princess. I don’t have to see you to read you.”

She quirked her lips in doubt, and then wondered if Bellamy could read _that_ in the dark. Sure enough, his hand left hers and settled on her shoulder. He tugged lightly. “Come on, Clarke. Relax. It looks like we might be here for a while.”

She succumbed, turning slightly and leaning back into the warmth of his body. It was the most intimate position she’d ever been in with Bellamy Blake, but she was cold and cramped from kneeling and she fit into him perfectly.

~*~*~

Bellamy’s muscles had gone slack behind her, his hand was splayed across the ratty fabric of her shirt where it peeped out between her rucked up jacket and the heavy fabric of her jeans. His breath sifted the hair against her cheek. The noisome lot outside had quieted down also, and now only the wind and the crackling of the fire could be heard.

There was a cramp in Clarke’s lower neck, so she leaned her head forward and prodded at the tender area with fingers gone stiff with the cold.

“Okay, Princess?” Bellamy’s voice came softly and somewhat muzzily into her ear.

She nodded slightly, wincing. “Yes,” she replied.

“Liar,” he accused, and the hand not warming her belly came up and wrapped around her nape, fingers squeezing and digging gently. Clarke let out a sigh and let her head drop further forward.

“Thank you,” she managed, sighing again as his thumb brushed gently against her hairline. There was no reply, but she thought his fingers lingered behind her ears.

As he continued to work on the knots in her neck, the air began to feel charged. It was a slow progression, but growing stronger with every moment that passed.

Moments later the charge in the air turned to pure electricity as Bellamy’s hand, the one that wasn’t working magic on her neck, ventured further up underneath her jacket, his thumb and forefinger coming to rest just below her breasts. He shifted, and Clarke felt his breath against her neck.

“Bellamy,” she breathed, “what are you doing?”

“No idea,” he replied, his fingers curling around the side of her neck. “Do you want me to stop?”

His thumb brushed the underside of her breast, and she only had to think for a moment before she whispered, almost on a moan, “No…”

He grunted quietly and his hand spread wider on her torso as he hauled her back closer to him. Clarke pushed a bit with her legs, helping. Bellamy’s breath whispered directly against her ear, and she felt his hand pull her hair to one side. She startled slightly when she felt his lips there, on the skin behind the shell of her ear. Then it was all she could do to remember to breathe.

~*~*~

_Bellamy_

It occurred to Bellamy with remarkable delay that he was feeling up Clarke Griffin in a hollowed out tree in the middle of a grounder camp, with Finn tied up probably no more than 20 feet away. He was surprised that he had let himself get so carried away, and even more surprised that she had allowed it. He was _not_ surprised by the intensity with which he did not want to stop; granted, the blonde wall of determination that was Clarke Griffin had been getting under his skin for so long that he had hardly recognized when it had turned from frustrated hostility to frustrated admiration—but when that admiration had acquired a healthy side of sexual tension he had certainly taken notice. And that tension had been growing steadily for a while now. He’d let it alone only because he was almost positive that it was one-sided and hadn’t really needed the blow to his self-esteem, particularly as it had already been taking a few hits lately. Apparently he’d been a little off base about the nature of her reciprocation.

Still, this was essentially the absolute worst time and place to find out exactly _how_ off base.

With a muttered “damn it,” Bellamy pulled his hands off of Clarke’s skin, which had been slowly warming with his attentions. He breathed out once through his nose, and started to speak. “Clarke, we should—”

She turned fully in his arms and put her mouth to his. He jerked, and then put all of his mind to kissing her. His fingers moved across her chin, framing her face as her mouth opened under his. It was a heated kiss, the kind that blocks the outside world.

He moved a hand to her neck and kissed his way to her ear. “We need to leave,” he whispered.

“I know,” she said, swinging a leg over his, hovering over him briefly before returning her mouth to his. “I just want a minute.”

He slid his hands up under her jacket, under her shirt, against the chilled, damp skin of her back. “Damn, Clarke, you’re freezing.” He chafed at her skin with his hands, intent on getting her blood flowing.

She drew slightly away from him. “Bellamy, please just stop talking.”

He tried to see her face in the darkness. There was no reading her now. This was uncharted Clarke Griffin territory. “What’s going on, Clarke?”

“I just…” Clarke hesitated. “I just want to not think about all of it for a second. I just need… a second.”

He caged the back of her head in his hand and brought her mouth back to his, muttering a “Whatever you want, princess,” before his mouth was busy with other things. The skin of her back lost contact with his hand briefly as she arched against him, and he followed it so that he could press her even more tightly against him.

The allure of her breasts at eye level was too much to resist, so he unzipped her coat quickly and pulled aside her shirt, so that he could put his hands on her, and then his mouth. She gasped, and he looked up at her with a wry grin. “Been wanting to get my hands on these for a while.”

Her eyes widened slightly. He rolled her nipple between his fore and middle fingers as he took in with more than a little appreciation the way she overflowed slightly out of his hand as he cupped one breast. “You have goddamn magnificent breasts, Clarke,” he said with a cocky smile.

She moved against him, rocking slightly, and he lost the smile, drawing her mouth back down to his as his hand moved to her hip, pulling her more firmly against the part of his anatomy that was currently at full attention. Clarke gasped again and the sound fired him on. His hand moved back over her ass, between her legs, and he rubbed her through her pants. Her forehead touched his shoulder again and her breathe stuttered as his fingers worked against her.

“Bellamy,” she whispered falteringly, need in her voice.

“ _Shhh, shhh_ ,” he murmured, and pulled his hand back so that he could unbutton her jeans. She bucked against him as he pushed his hand between her skin and underwear, as his fingers slipped and slid against her. “Come on, baby,” he muttered. She came, silently, body whip tight, within moments.

Clarke lay limp against him as her breathing normalized. He moved his hands to her hips and brushed his thumbs against the soft flesh there. When, suddenly, he felt her fingers at the snaps of his cargoes, he stopped her motions with his hands.

“We have to go, Clarke,” he said, trying to keep the regret out of his voice. She stared at him for long moments and then nodded, once, and moved backwards, buttoning her jeans as she went. She zipped up her coat, gathered up her pack, and turned towards the gap in the trunk.

“Clarke,” he said quickly, quietly, and she turned back towards him.

“This,” he swung his finger back and forth between them. “This we are talking about later.”

She gave another quick nod, her eyes snagging on his. “Okay.”

~*~*~

Moments later, after hurried, nearly silent communication, Finn looked back and forth between their kneeling figures and shook his head. "Leave me. Go get Lincoln. I’ve already gained us enough grounder enemies. We can’t afford to renege on this deal,” he whispered fiercely.

Clarke’s jaw tightened, and she eyed his bound hands. “These people want to kill you, Finn. The only thing stopping them is their leader.”

He looked at her. “Do you really think I don’t deserve it?”

She looked away, swallowing heavily. “I think you need help.”

“I deserve punishment for my crimes, Clarke. Don’t deny me, or them, that.”

She shook her head and moved her eyes from the trees to the ground.

Bellamy stared at him hard for a second and then nodded and stood. “Come on, Princess. Finn’s right. We can’t back out of this one.” He looked back at Finn. “Have you seen O?”

Finn shook his head. The relief that coursed through Bellamy must have been nearly tangible, because Clarke looked over at him, and stood swiftly.

As one, they shouldered their packs.

First, they would find Octavia. The rest, only time could tell.

 

**Author's Note:**

> First fic for this fandom. Actually, first fic in more than 6 years. Bellarke hit me hard and fast and I couldn't resist.
> 
> Feedback is like crack; I'd comb the carpet for it if I thought it would get me another hit. Talk to me. :)


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